FINDING OUT MORE
“She said what?”
Blaine was on the wall of the castle when Ambeal came to find him. He was overseeing the masons as they fixed the break in the east wall. He stared at his wife's maid uncomprehendingly.
“Sir,” Ambeal was clearly nervous. She licked her lips, eyes darting about, before she replied again. “Sir, your wife is ill. She sent me back to tell you that...that she is staying where she is. She says not to worry; she is well-cared for where she is.”
Blaine scraped a hand through his hair, heart thudding. “Where is she?”
“She...” Ambeal wrung her skirt. She looked desperate to be somewhere else at that moment. “She's safe. That's all she said to tell ye...”
“You're concealing the truth from me, aren't you?” Blaine said, eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Ambeal nodded, eyes shut. “I mean, no. I don't know, sir. What can I say? I promised not to tell...”
Suddenly, she was crying. Blaine felt wretched. As if it wasn't bad enough that he sent his wife off on some journey to Heaven alone knew where, without so much as a goodbye kiss! Now he was making her maidservant cry with his ruthless questioning. He swallowed and reached for his handkerchief.
“Here, I'm...I'm sorry. Ambeal?” He was the master-at-arms, after all, his own position serving the family here. What place did he have to shout at Ambeal, who was only carrying out what Chrissie had asked her?
“Th...Thank ye, master Blaine,” she said, sniffing. She blew her nose noisily, and then hiccupped. “Sir, your wife is safe. I'd nae have left her, had she not been.”
Blaine gave a ragged out breath. His heart raced. He knew Ambeal was telling the truth: she was devoted to Chrissie and she would not have left her in danger.
“I know,” he said gently. “Thank you for telling me. I suggest you talk to Lady Amabel, or Lady Alina. Perhaps you can tell them details that you can't tell me.”
“Aye, I mean, yes, sir,” Ambeal said, looking marginally relieved. She curtsied once, twice, and hurried off back along the roof.
When she'd left, Blaine looked over the parapet, thinking hard. What was happening to Chrissie? He had thought they were so close; thought that they shared all their worries and news. However, lately she had been so secretive. Where was she now? Why had she suddenly decided to stay there, without even suggesting where she had gone, or how long she might stay?
He frowned. Down below him, the masons were hauling great stone blocks into place, using an ingenious lever system that would have fascinated him just days ago. However, Chrissie and her odd change of mood were on his mind, occupying all of his thoughts. He could not find simple pleasure in anything. He had to know what was wrong with her.
“Okay, you lot!” he called down to the workers, who stared at him in surprise. “It's time for midday meal. I'll join you in an hour. Good?”
“Aye, sir!” The chief mason, a man with a friendly face and shoulders like an ogre, shouted up at him.
“Right,” Blaine called back, feeling somewhat gratified by the “sir”. At least someone treated him with respect. Much as he loved Broderick and Duncan, working for them was proving harder than he thought it would. All that was secondary, though. Right now all that mattered was Chrissie.
Luncheon in the solar was a merry event as always. Blaine chafed at the genteel atmosphere, the quiet jokes, and the requests to pass the cold ham. At length, when Broderick and Duncan had gone to check on the wall, he seized a moment to talk to the two ladies.
“Amabel, Alina?”
“Yes?” Amabel asked. Alina, sitting on his left, leaned in, eyes wide. She was sweating, as if even this was an effort, and he hesitated to worry her.
“Ladies,” he began cautiously, “I think Ambeal talked to you earlier?”
“She came to see me, yes,” Amabel said gravely. Her face was firm, her expression tense, guarded. Blaine sighed.
“She said nothing to me about where Chrissie is. Last I heard she was near Inveruglas, visiting the holy saint's shrine. Now, Ambeal won't say where she is. Please...do you know anything about it?”
Blaine noticed Amabel and Alina share a quick glance. Alina jerked her head and Amabel widened her gaze. He guessed there was some sort of conspiracy afoot, some sort of debate about whether or not he should be told. He felt shivers down his spine. What was going on? What was so terrible, so secret, that they would not tell him, her own husband?
Just before they spoke, he guessed. It was the only thing she would not tell him. It explained everything – her distance from him, her restlessness, her secrets.
“Blaine,” Amabel said gently, “there's something you should know.”
“She's expecting a child, isn't she?” he snapped. It was...that man's son. He knew it. It explained everything!
Amabel blinked. “Yes! You guessed. Are you not pleased?” She smiled.
Blaine stared at her. “Pleased?” He gave a harsh laugh. “I should be pleased?”
Amabel looked at him oddly, as if he had just danced a jig in the Archbishop's anteroom. He shook his head bitterly. “This news is not pleasing to me,” he said, voice as cold as stone.
There was a sudden shocked silence in the room, and Amabel and Alina both looked at him.
“Blaine!” Amabel said, her pretty face suddenly dark with anger. “This is...”
“I know, I should be loving and supportive and all that. But I can't! I can't do it!” He stood up and, knowing he was being a fool, but unable to help himself, marched out of the room. He reached the arched window that looked out over the courtyard, where he had stood with Duncan the previous day, and gripped the stone lintel, feeling himself shake with rage and sadness.
“Blaine.”
The voice was a ghost's, the word a whisper on the wind. It was Alina. He turned round. She was standing just beside him, leaning on the rail, her oval face tranquil, but strangely sad.
“Alina,” he said brokenly. “I'm sorry. I...I can't...”
“You are hasty,” Alina said quietly, and in her quiet tone was a deep reproach. “Do not be.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Blaine said brokenly. He turned to her. He guessed he must look as broken as he felt, for he saw her eyes widen and she leaned back slightly, recoiling from him.
He sighed. Wiped his mouth with his hand, and drew in a deep breath. He had no idea why he was being like this. He only knew that this news hurt him, twisting in his heart. This discovery seemed to mock the little strength he had to keep Chrissie safe. Unmanned him.
“You are thinking of yourself,” Alina said, matter-of-fact. Blaine turned to look at her. Her face white as marble, black eyes huge, like a carved angel. She volleyed an angel's quiet reproach at him as well.
He looked away from those level eyes across the courtyard, sighing hard. He looked at his hands, the knuckles bruised from fights with the men. He purposely relaxed them and let the swollen knuckles ease.
“I know,” he agreed quietly, after a long moment. It was selfishness, this need of his to be always able to protect, to be the strong one, to safeguard Chrissie and to show off to her. “But I...you wouldn't understand.”
“You take it on yourself to protect her. You are her husband, and you think it right,” Alina said mildly. “You forget that each person lives their own path, and that to cross that rule will only bring peril to you both.”
Blaine blinked. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He remembered, suddenly, the talk about Alina, that she was a seer with a fearsome reputation. He swallowed hard. The wind had risen, and it blew down the back of his neck. It seemed to him to be the icy breath of fate, whispering in the colonnade, sharing its secrets.
“I would not wish to bring peril to anyone,” he said hastily. He had no idea what he was expected to say. All he knew was that he wanted to be away from here suddenly, from this cold balcony with this ghostly pale woman and the voices of fate, laughing to themselves as they stirred the dead leaves along the hallway behind him.
Alina looked up at him. He looked back at her.
“I need to go,” he said hastily. “I need to get back to the wall. The men are waiting...” He hurried away, walking briskly into the shelter of the hallway, heading to the stairwell.
When he looked back, she was still there, looking after him, leaning on the rail with her eyes focused on some faraway place.
Blaine shivered. He sometimes thought he'd be better a hundred miles away, in a stone quarry in the mountains somewhere, carving stones with the masons and condemned men. Anything would be better than this confusion.
He went outside to the wall, where Broderick and Duncan were already inspecting the works, laughing and joking with each other. He envied their easy manner, their lack of worry.
“Blaine!” Broderick hailed him, smiling and waving him to join them. “Good work! This place looks marvelous!”
“We're ready for war in a way we've never been before,” Duncan agreed, his lazy smile reaching out to Blaine, drawing him into their easy company.
“It seems to be going well,” he agreed quietly.
He stayed to talk with them, but their chatting chafed at him, scraping over his restless spirit like sand on blistered feet. When they had finally gone within, still talking and laughing among themselves, he went down to consult with the masons.
Considering his job done for today, he went out for a ride. He needed to clear his thoughts.
Outside, the clouds seemed lower, the hilltop cold, the wind hissing over it and biting at exposed limbs as if it had teeth. Blaine, cloak thrown back, did not notice the pain.
“Ya!” he shouted, flicking reins to send Bert, his Clydesdale horse, racing along the ridge way.
The ride did not seem to be making him feel any better. The longer he stayed out, the sweat dripping down his brow despite the icy wind, the more his rage seemed to grow. He was running Bert down the slope, scree rattling behind them as they raced, when the horse stumbled.
He shot over his horse's head, and found himself lying on the hillside. There was nothing broken – they had been going too slowly for that – but the stones had grazed his skin and the fall jarred his bones. Suddenly, the frustration, the pain, and...yes, the sadness, the deep, unacknowledged mourning for the joy he had lost, welled up in him.
Blaine rolled onto his side and sobbed. He sobbed so that the tears rolled down his face, mixing with the sweat and blood and dripping from his chin. He howled.
“Why?” he shouted, hearing his yell echo emptily across the valley. There was no answer. He knew there was no answer. He had to ask anyway.
After a long while, shoulders heaving, he stopped. Bert, his horse, snorted at him, his liquid eyes seeming to understand. Blaine gave a soft laugh.
“You know, don't you, boy?” he asked. The horse nuzzled his shoulder and Blaine patted his nose. They stayed like that while the sun started to set and the clouds turned into fire on the western horizon. Then, as the wind chilled his skin, Blaine stood.
“Time to go home, eh?”
The horse snorted again, and Blaine smiled sadly. At least someone still seemed to like him! He stood, wincing at how his legs had stiffened in the cold after his fall. He must look a sight, he thought. Blood had ran down his cheek from a small graze in his forehead, and one leg of his trews was scraped and ruined, his leg sticky with blood and soil beneath.
“Well, we have to go back sometime, eh?” he commented to Bert, who said nothing but seemed to think it was a good idea, for he quickened his pace. Blaine sighed. He contemplated what it would be like not to return. To simply stay out here with his horse, his saddle, and his knife, eating wild berries and setting traps, living as a recluse on the hillside.
Maybe it would be easier than returning home.
He chuckled. It was braver, he thought, to face the truth. Why was he doing this, anyway? It would be Chrissie's child. That should be all that mattered.
“Alina said man should not try to rule someone's fate,” he sighed. “If Chrissie is fated to have this man's child, what must I say to counter it? It is not my place to gainsay it. It was not even her choice.”
He felt foolish, suddenly. He understood why Alina and Amabel had looked at him with such shock. This was his wife. This would be her child.
He had not even asked Amabel where she was.
“How could I be such a fool?” he asked himself bitterly. The wind hissed at him, drawing at his strength, but did not reply. He shook his head. He was a fool. Duncan was right. He was an arrogant fool.
He sighed. He would go upstairs and have a bath, and then he would find Amabel at dinner and ask her where Chrissie was. He should be there. If she was ailing, if she was sorrowful – and if he was upset by this news, she was probably doubly so – then his place was by her side.
He waited until they had reached the base of the hills, and then mounted again, heading up the opposite incline where Lochlann waited, a brooding gray presence, on the summit.
To find out where Chrissie was, and to join her if he could.